Age old story - Rama gets exiled into the forest, takes Sita with him, and Laxman accompanies him as a loyal brother. Ravana kidnaps Sita. Rama joins forces with vanars and Hanuman to cross over to Lanka and rescue Sita.
Ramayana, a six-book series written by Ashok Banker weaves a world untold by mythology. Every move, every moment is described in so intricate a detail as to border on the verge of being explicitly descriptive. Each word draws the reader into the world of Rama, and not just from his point of view, but also through the eyes of the numerous other characters that are involved in building up this epic tale.
From the complex yet artistic dance of swordsmanship as the brothers fight hordes of Asuras to the raw electric power of the Brahmashakti surging through Rama’s veins; from the immense power of Hanuman as he searches Ravana’s palace in search of Sita to the ten minds of Ravana as he leads the Asuras and the militaristic genius of Rama's army, this book has it all.
It’s a worthy set for your shelf and a must read for any lover of fantasy and mythology.
An Exerpt from the first chapter of Book 1 -
The Prince of Ayodhya
The blow-heat of rancid breath against his face, guttural whisper in his ear. He snapped awake. Sweat-drenched, fever-hot, bone-chilled, springing from his satin bed, barefoot on the cool redstone floor. Sword, now. A yard and a half of gleaming Kosala steel, never out of reach, a bolt of lightning in his fist. Soft rustle of the silken gold-embroidered loincloth around his tight abs. Naked feline grace. Taut young muscles, supple limbs, senses instantly attuned to the slightest hint of threat.
He scanned the moonlit expanse of his bedchamber with the sharpness of a panther with the scent of stag in its nostrils. Barely three seconds after rising from deep, dreamless sleep, he was ready to take on a dozen armed men. Or worse.
But the bedchamber was empty. The moon was full tonight, and the room was caught in a silvery net, more than sufficient for his trained eyes to scan the princely apartment. Jeweled ornaments and regal furnishings gleamed richly in the silvered dimness. The far wall, some twenty yards from where he stood, showed him a pale imitation of his own reflection in an oval mirror framed in solid gold. He had heard enough descriptions of his appearance in kavyas composed by the royal bards to know what the mirror would have shown had the light been sufficient. A distinct dynastic resemblance, unmistakably related to one of those towering portraits of his illustrious ancestors adorning the walls of Suryavansha Hall. Classically handsome (the bards would sing), a fitting heir to the dynasty of the Sun: The reality was harder, leaner, and more austere. His piercing brown eyes, as sharp and all-seeing as a kite-hawk’s thousand-yojana gaze, scoured every square inch as he traversed the apartment with quick military precision, his movements graceful and flowing.
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